I know how is it like for your thoughts to be so detached from the now that it drives you to your own recklessness, George.

I sat on the toilet and thought about you, felt the lighting of the bathroom around me, I went on on my day as I read about how you lived your last and it was all awfully still and ordinary. I suppose this is why you dealt with it so casually, the whole life thing, without clinging too much to the waves of rage and happiness that caught you. And letting a younger body catch you off a real wave that could have killed you and made you from the past like your lover way before you drank that scotch before bed.

I went to the park and read you, George. It was all so much yet it flowed; kids running, people going off with their day, men like you were jogging. You were moving as they were, I was just in-between the world and your thoughts, while smoking a cigarette, drinking coffee.